Stockings
by Joodiff
Summary: Boyd makes an interesting discovery - one that Grace wants him to make. T-rated for language. Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

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 **Stockings**

by Joodiff

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"One day," Boyd growls from the darkest, most cramped corner of the stacks that comprise just part of the CCU's extensive archive, "we've got get this lot properly indexed and cross-referenced – and not just on an _ad hoc_ basis. What's the point of wasting hours blindly poking around down here when we could have the whole lot entered onto a sodding database? At least then we'd stand half a chance of being able to find what we're looking for. It's a complete waste of time and resources randomly searching for stuff like this. We're not in the bloody Dark Ages anymore, for fuck's sake."

There is no answer from the other side of the dingy subterranean room. He's not surprised. He's tired, he's had a long and stressful day, and the very last thing he wants to be doing at gone nine at night is looking for something Grace thinks she vaguely remembers stumbling across an indeterminate amount of time ago. He's petulant and irritable and he knows it, and since she long-ago elevated into a minor art form completely ignoring him whenever she deems him more than usually bad-tempered, the resulting silence is ostentatious; heavy with meaning. Even so, Boyd pauses, glares over his shoulder in what he guesses to be her general direction and barks, " _Grace_. I said – "

"I _heard_ what you said," her long-suffering voice returns from the other side of the many ceiling-high racks of files and boxes that form a physical barrier between them. "You say _exactly_ the same thing every single time you have to come down here and actually look for something yourself."

She's right, but that doesn't stop Boyd being aggrieved by her tone. He's a Detective Superintendent, for God's sake, a middle-aged senior police officer in sole command of a specialist autonomous unit. He has _staff_ to do this sort of thing for him, and if Grace had bothered to think about that _before_ he dismissed everyone for the night then –

"Here we are," her disembodied voice suddenly announces before he has a chance to further vocalise his increasing annoyance. "Found it."

"Thank fuck for that," Boyd mutters, roughly pushing recently-disturbed files back into their assigned places. It's probably not much of a secret to anyone anymore that despite his gruff demeanour he adores her, would willingly walk barefoot over hot coals for her if circumstances called for it, but, by Christ, even on a good day she is more than capable of exasperating him beyond the point of endurance with her knowing looks, her completely illogical theories, and her damned female intuition. Brushing dust off his expensive suit trousers with fastidious care, he casts a final grim, venomous look at the racks he's been not-so-patiently searching before straightening up and backing cautiously out of the narrow space.

He locates her in a deep alcove at the back of the room. Barefoot, Boyd is close to six foot tall, and even _he_ can only just reach the top shelves unaided. Grace isn't, and she can't. Consequently, he finds her precariously balanced on an old wooden step-ladder trying to rummage through the contents of a dog-eared box-file one-handed. His first reaction is both laudable and chivalrous – steady the damn ladder to make sure she doesn't hurt herself – his second rather less-so. He can be gallant when it suits him, but Boyd is also a thoroughly red-blooded male, and – age notwithstanding – she really does have very good legs. Which, given today's unusual sartorial choice of a dark grey skirt in place of the tailored trousers she tends to favour, and the current step-ladder situation, are extremely well-displayed. He loyally puts a foot on the bottom rung, of course he does, but despite his desire to stabilise the ladder his gaze remains well-and-truly focused on the shapely limbs now positioned right in front of him. His only possible excuse is that he's a man irretrievably in lust and is therefore easily distracted by such things.

Somewhere above him, Grace complains, "It's not in here. I could have sworn…"

Boyd could have sworn, too, a few minutes earlier. Loudly, inventively, and at great length. But now he's much less irritable. Staring fixedly at her legs, he ignobly suggests, "Check again."

She hasn't spotted the mendacity behind the words. Not yet. But she will. Until then, he's making the most of the highly agreeable view for just as long as he possibly can. Really _very_ good legs. And the sheer tights she's wearing are beginning to do some very interesting things for him, too.

"Ahem," Grace says.

She's realised. With as ingenuous an expression as he can muster, Boyd looks up at her. "Mm?"

"Enjoying yourself?" she asks in the kind of mild tone that's very deceptive.

"Enjoying the view," he admits, doing his best to be at least a little disarming. The look he receives in return is cool and serene, but also faintly pleased. It's all the encouragement Boyd needs to give up the role of passive voyeur and take an altogether more proactive stance. Those legs feel just as good as they look. Not a surprise, given that by now he knows precisely how every inch of her body feels under his hands, but an extremely pleasant experience all the same.

"Stop it," Grace scolds, though her voice lacks any real ire. "How am I supposed to concentrate with you doing that?"

Not removing his hands, he says, "I thought women were supposed to be far better than men at multi-tasking?"

She snorts, goes back to rummaging through the box-file she's now unsteadily balancing on the top of the ladder. Boyd takes it as tacit permission to carry on amusing himself. And therefore does so. Grace may be deliberately ignoring his wandering hands, but he doesn't care; his evening has already improved immeasurably. He might be a lot closer to sixty than sixteen, but the stark truth of all the mounting years hasn't put much of a dent in his healthy libido. Boyd likes women. He likes them a _lot_. And, God help him, he's become far too captivated by her to let such a good opportunity quite literally slip through his fingers.

The higher his hands travel, the further he's pushing his luck, he knows that. What Grace deems acceptable in the intimate privacy of the bedroom tends to be very different from her robust ideas about what does – and does _not_ – constitute appropriate behaviour in the workplace. Even late in the evening when there's only the two of them and the ever-present spark of mutual attraction. A consummate professional himself, Boyd can see her point, but though age and experience may have mellowed him a little he's still an impetuous, impudent sort of creature at heart – one who's not afraid to take a chance or two now and again. Still, he's also a realist, and he's already fully prepared for the inevitable stern admonition. The one Grace will really mean and he will actually heed because although he's often reckless he's definitely not stupid.

She really has got damn good legs, though, and if he edges his hands just a little higher under her skirt…

 _Holy fucking hell…_

The unexpected discovery under his palms just about knocks Boyd off his feet. Not tights. Oh, no. _Stockings_.

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 **A/N:** _Due to FFN's continued enforcement of the "no MA fic" rule, the above is a taster for the full story which you can find in the "Waking the Dead" category of Archive Of Our Own. Please be aware that the full version of "Stockings" is adult-rated. Thanks._


End file.
